


Ring Out, Wild Bells

by skoosiepants



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Atlernate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-02
Updated: 2006-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-11 21:19:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skoosiepants/pseuds/skoosiepants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This is the part where you thank me, apologize for not giving me an equally fantastic gift, and then go away," Rodney prompted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ring Out, Wild Bells

Before the reading of his uncle’s will, Rodney had been living in the backseat of his Dodge Neon, bemoaning the loss of his job and his girlfriend, and subsequently his apartment and his cat and about half his earthly possessions. Before the screaming had started – god, he hated the screaming - he’d only managed to make it out the door with two trash bags full of clothes, his _Wrath of Khan_ DVD, and a box of abused astro- and theoretical physics texts that he had no idea why he bothered to grab, since they were utterly useless and _wrong_.  
  
After the reading of his uncle’s will, Rodney apparently owned a generously-sized manor house in western Pennsylvania, controlling shares in four businesses, and was worth well over three point five million dollars.  
  
He had every intention of collecting Mr. Jones, moving into Silverhill Manor, and becoming a hermit.  
  
*  
  
The first thing he did was fire all the house staff – he’d been informed there were three - but one particularly large, hairy man kept showing up in his kitchen at three a.m.   
  
The house was big and creepy and Rodney was used to a studio flat with barely enough room to breathe. So he slept with Mr. Jones on his chest and mace on his bedside table, and he palmed a Maglite when he inevitably couldn’t sleep and ended up wandering the manor. After a week of squealing like a giant girl whenever he bumped into Dex – the well-muscled, hirsute, refused-to-be-fired interloper – he started leaving the kitchen lights on and timed a coffee pot, and they bonded over slices of pie and contended grunts.   
  
And Rodney resigned himself to having a… manservant? Pool boy? Ninja assassin? What the hell did Dex _do_ , anyway? lurking about the house.  
  
*  
  
His nearest neighbor was… well, right next door, since twenty-first century contractors apparently had no concept of privacy beyond judiciously placed hedges, and built ginormous mansions on plots where at one time stood perfectly respectable four bedroom homes with half-acre yards.   
  
Rodney could peer out his study window and right into the Emmagan dining room. And since neither Rodney nor Dex could make anything the least bit edible, evenings often found them both drooling on the window ledge, with Dex being quiet and almost-reflective – Rodney liked to imagine the man was thinking very, very hard, as he loathed keeping the company of idiots - while Rodney mapped flowcharts and bar-graphs of possible ways for getting them invited over for dinner.  
  
Plus, as Dex had so eloquently put it, Teyla Emmagan was hot.  
  
There was a hot neighbor to their left as well, but he didn’t seem too keen on cooking. And he had some sort of armory set up in his backyard, complete with what looked like a target range-slash-basketball court, so Rodney kept their interactions to a minimum. Though Dex was infatuated with his guns – which was in no way surprising – and disappeared over there for hours at a time. He’d always come back sweaty, a sharp grin splitting his face. Rodney tried not to imagine what suspect activities were going on.   
  
And he was only slightly jealous, since the big oaf was _his_ and who did this Sheppard character think he was, anyway?  
  
*  
  
The privacy hedge around Rodney’s house stopped at the very edge of brick and stucco, and a half-fence that barely reached his waistline ran the length of his backyard as it paralleled Sheppard’s. The only reason Rodney ever ventured out that far was because Dex had helpfully pointed out that from certain angles they could see right into Teyla’s kitchen.   
  
The large man helped him drag his patio set down onto the lawn past the pool, and most afternoons they’d sip coffee and watch steam rise out of big pots, filled with what Rodney surmised were delicious foodstuffs. And then they’d go in and order Chinese.   
  
Occasionally, though, Sheppard caught them outside and he’d lean his hip against the low, white new-age vinyl barrier and smirk at him.  
  
Rodney was sticking with hot as a descriptor, even though Sheppard’s hair was stupid and did this weird, not-at-all endearing flippy thing in the front.  
  
*  
  
By the time the radio stations decided it was Christmas, Rodney had been living at Silverhill for just over three months, still had no idea what Dex did – though he’d checked with his lawyers and he apparently wasn’t paying him for anything, either – and Teyla, bless her sexy heart, was feeding them regularly.   
  
She called him Doc McKay, which made him feel about fifty instead of thirty-three, but her baked ziti was amazing so he let it slide.  
  
More often than not, Sheppard greeted him with a completely unwarranted, nasty twist to his mouth. Unwarranted, of course, because even though Rodney openly admitted to being Not A Nice Person, he’d never, in his recollection, been anything but polite to the man. And he let him play with Dex, didn’t he?  
  
“What do you think his problem is?” he asked Dex one afternoon, tossing the paper he’d retrieved onto the foyer table and stomping snow from his boots. A fire was roaring in the side parlor and Dex was in his usual boneless sprawl across the hearth rug.  
  
Dex didn’t bother opening his eyes from his semi-nap. The man was like a large, lazy cat. “Who?”  
  
“Sheppard. You’d think I kicked his puppy and stole his Christmas pudding,” Rodney groused. He peeled off his coat and dropped it onto the slate floor, not for the first time regretting his decision to mass fire the staff.  
  
Dex’s shoulders moved in an approximation of a shrug. “Maybe he didn’t like your uncle.”  
  
“Nobody liked my uncle,” Rodney snapped, flopping down onto a sofa. “He was a fork-tongued misanthrope who ate babies for breakfast.”  
  
“I liked your uncle,” Dex offered almost tonelessly.  
  
Rodney curled his lip in disgust. “You have the brain capacity of a five-year-old gorilla. I sincerely doubt you even registered on his radar.”  
  
Dex snorted, predictably unoffended.   
  
It’d become a game of sorts to Rodney, seeing how far he could go before sparking the man’s slow-to-burn temper. To date, Rodney’d only broken him with a degenerate ‘your mama’ comment, and there were only so many times he’d willingly stoop that low. Highbrow insults just seemed to amuse Dex.  
  
Rodney prodded him in the side with the tip of his boot. “My sister’s coming for Christmas. Are you staying, or do I need to pay an outrageous sum for you to scuttle off to that hovel you grew up in?”  
  
One brown eye popped open. “Are you insulting my mother again, McKay?”  
  
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied airily, and Dex gave him one of his rare, honestly happy smiles, the ones he most often turned on Teyla.  
  
“’Tis the season,” Dex said gruffly, eyes nearly twinkling as he rose up on one elbow.  
  
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Rodney demanded.  
  
“Means Christmas softens you up, McKay.” Oh, he was definitely laughing at him. The cheeky Neanderthal.  
  
“Keep going and I’ll airmail you home in a live animal crate.”  
  
Dex settled back down onto the floor, eyes falling closed again. “My mother could eat you,” he growled good-naturedly.  
  
Rodney rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, “I’m sure she could.” Mentally, he added Mrs. Dex to his to-shop-for list.  
  
*  
  
Rodney hated shopping. But it was the first Christmas in a good many years that he could actually afford to buy people things, so he was willing to venture out to a few select stores. Mainly, though, he made calls and emailed contacts and ordered online, avoiding people like the plague, re: his earlier plan of hermitage.  
  
He bought his niece a pony, knowing full well that her mother, despite being able to afford it – since she’d gotten a hefty sum from their uncle as well – would never, ever think to get one. And she’d also be pissed as hell about it, which was just a fabulous bonus to winning Gabby’s undying love and devotion.  
  
Being neighborly and rich and – damn it – a little irritated that Sheppard so instantly and thoroughly disliked him, Rodney quizzed Dex on the man’s munitions, then delved into his mysterious past-that-must-not-be-named, pulled more than a few strings, yelled at a few key people, and managed to get a promise of delivery on Christmas morning.  
  
Teyla was tough, but she seemed to enjoy whimsy, so, with promises of consultation and threats of blackmail, he bullied his old friend and co-worker Radek into dressing up like an elf and singing Czech Christmas carols on her front stoop.  
  
Dex got roundtrip airfare to the boondocks of Nebraska. His mother got a box of Cadbury chocolates and a note of sympathy for having been saddled with a ham-fisted giant of a son with more hair than your average dog.  
  
*  
  
Gabby had Rodney and Jeannie up at the unnatural hour of seven Christmas morning, so Rodney was unpredictably coherent enough to hear the doorchime at quarter to eight, having already consumed four cups of coffee.   
  
He opened the front door to John Sheppard and a gun as big as his head. Rodney took a giant step backwards.  
  
“I can’t believe you,” Sheppard hissed, eyes narrowed. His hair was more excited than normal, sticking up in tufts behind his ears, and he was wearing sweats that hung almost obscenely off his hips, a hastily donned winter jacket unzipped over a thin USAF tee.  
  
Rodney tilted his chin up. “You’re welcome.”  
  
“These are _illegal_.” He cradled the weapon to his chest, one arm supporting the body, fingers curled over the barrel. Not unlike a baby. Rodney was only slightly disturbed.  
  
“Good thing you’re brandishing it about out in the open then,” Rodney said, mock-cheerfully. The _ingrate_.  
  
“I could be a lunatic. I could be stark, raving mad—”  
  
“I’m starting to think so, yes,” Rodney muttered.  
  
“—and you had an M4 assault rifle _delivered to my door_!”  
  
“With a military escort, I hope,” Rodney said, crossing his arms over his chest. “General O’Neill isn’t a complete idiot, but occasionally people surprise me. I take it you don’t like your gift?”  
  
“Are you freaking kidding me?” Sheppard nearly shouted. “I _love_ it! You’re completely _insane_!”  
  
Rodney winced. Sheppard’s enthusiasm was bound to wake the pony. “I think I’m perfectly capable of running a decent, in-depth background check, thank you very much, _Major_.”  
  
Sheppard froze. “Not Major anymore,” he said tightly.  
  
Rodney waved a dismissive hand. “Believe me, it helped. I’d invite you in, but my impressionable niece has a pony to unwrap, and I’d rather it not have an armed guard.”  
  
“Um.” Sheppard shifted awkwardly on his feet.  
  
“This is the part where you thank me, apologize for not giving me an equally fantastic gift, and then go away,” Rodney prompted.  
  
“Is Ronon here?”  
  
Rodney’s face screwed up. “Who?”  
  
“Ronon.” Sheppard scratched the back of his neck, head dipping, eyelashes grazing the tops of his cheeks.  
  
God, he was hot. “Do I know a Ronon?” Rodney asked absently.  
  
Sheppard’s head snapped up, hazel eyes slipping from incredulous to intense within seconds. “You _live_ with a Ronon,” he growled.  
  
“Oh! Dex, right.” Rodney rocked back on his heels. “He’s hibernating in Nebraska for a few days. With luck, he’ll shed his winter coat well before he returns.” He made a shooing motion. “You’ll have to find someone else to play with in the meantime.”  
  
Sheppard nodded, then glanced around, studiously avoiding Rodney’s gaze.  
  
“Was there something else?” Rodney asked impatiently.  
  
“No, just.” His nose scrunched up slightly, like he smelled something horrible but was trying hard not to let it show. “Thank you,” he finally managed.  
  
Not the first visibly painful thanks he’d gotten, but it still rankled. “Of course. Merry Christmas,” Rodney said, then shut the door in his face. John Sheppard was the most infuriating man alive.  
  
*  
  
“You gave my daughter a pony,” Jeannie said woodenly.  
  
“Yes.” Rodney was extraordinarily pleased with himself.  
  
“I hate you so very much.”  
  
“I love you, too,” he rejoined happily, then unearthed a beribboned pitchfork from behind the tree. “Merry Christmas!”  
  
She scowled at him darkly. “You’re still mad about me not letting you move in with us, aren’t you?”  
  
“Of course not. I adored living in my car. It was the best three weeks of my life.” Grinning, he added a spade to the pile of gifts at her feet.  
  
*  
  
Jeannie and Gabby left the day after Christmas, pony trailer in tow, and Rodney stood in the middle of his foyer, hands on his hips, listening to the deafening silence with increasing concern. “Huh.”  
  
He turned to look at the side parlor, fire stoked but lacking Dex sprawled in front of it, and the lummox had always been eerily quiet, but he’d apparently been a fairly large presence just the same. The house was huge and empty except for him and Mr. Jones and it was exactly how he’d wanted it since first moving in, exactly how he’d dreamed of living.   
  
He pretty much hated it.   
  
With a bit of a forlorn air, he trudged back towards the kitchen, contemplating inviting himself over to Teyla’s, or taunting Radek with the video feed of his hilarious elfish exploits, or, the most likely candidate, eating himself into a stupor. Leftovers were arguably the best part of the holidays, with cookies running a close second.  
  
And then the beeping started.  
  
Slow, rhythmic, and just loud enough to drive Rodney completely crazy.  
  
*  
  
By the time the doorbell rang hours later, Rodney had scoured half the house and was ready to tear his hair out.  
  
On his front stoop, Sheppard slid his hands into his pockets, the look on his face just shy of sheepish. “McKay, I—”  
  
“Oh, thank god,” Rodney cut in, grabbing his parka covered arm and dragging him inside, slamming the door shut behind them. He shoved a hand unceremoniously into the open neck of the jacket, pulling the zipper down with his other, urging it off his shoulders, and Sheppard, after a moment of stunned silence, made a helpful wiggle that left the garment pooled on the floor by his feet.  
  
“Um…”  
  
“Come on.” Rodney bounced impatiently on his feet, half-turning. “Come with me.”  
  
Sheppard arched an eyebrow. “McKay—”  
  
“Shhhhh.” Rodney swung around and clapped his hand over Sheppard’s mouth, eyes wide and desperate because _oh my god, the beeping_! “Just… shut up. Do you hear that?” he demanded.  
  
His hazel eyes were questioning and Rodney flexed his palm, and that _couldn’t_ have been a tongue he felt, but it seemed awfully _tongue-like_. Rodney cocked his head at Sheppard before letting him go, taking a step backwards, absently swiping his hand on his sweats-covered thigh.  
  
“Hear what?” Sheppard asked, voice suspiciously thick.  
  
The mysterious, faint beep sounded in the pause after his words.  
  
“That!”  
  
“It’s a beep,” the man drawled slowly, and Rodney’d read all of his records and knew Sheppard _wasn’t_ a moron, wasn’t even close to being a moron, but really. At that exact moment it was very, very hard to believe.  
  
Rodney moved close to him again, wrapping a hand around his forearm and leaning in, mouth a tight, crooked line. “Sheppard, if you don’t want me to go irrevocably insane,” he hissed, “perfect a thermonuclear bomb the size of my thumb that will decimate this house as well as three-fourths of the entire world, after,” he held up a finger, “escaping the atmosphere on a highly-classified experimental spacecraft with only my cat and Teyla as company, you will find whatever the hell that damn beeping is and then _help me kill it_.”  
  
Sheppard stared at him, surprise and then amusement registering on his face - which only served to enhance Rodney’s frustration, really, breath working up into indignant pants – but his mouth split into a loose grin and he said gamely, “Okay.”  
  
*  
  
Working in a systematic tracking pattern, Sheppard ferreted out the source of the beeping in less than ten minutes. He’d made it seem so unbelievably easy and obvious that Rodney would’ve been embarrassed if he hadn’t been so damn _relieved_.  
  
And it wasn’t as if he’d ever been in the room before, on the far side of his immense basement, the door hidden behind several stacks of boxes filled with his late uncle’s possessions.  
  
The double bed was pin neat, with hospital corners and a drab green wooly blanket draped over the foot. The room was sparsely furnished, closet-less, with one bedstand and one armoire. Right in the middle of the floor, electrical cord stretched to its limit, was a toppled-over alarm clock, volume blaring.  
  
“Mr. Jones,” Rodney muttered, hands on his hips, watching as Sheppard hunched down to pick up the clock, jeans pulling tight across his rather nice ass.  
  
He switched it off, looking up and back over his shoulder at Rodney. “Huh?”  
  
Rodney flapped a hand. “My cat. Must’ve knocked it over.” He glanced about the room speculatively. “So this is the beast’s lair. Bare bones, of course.”  
  
“You’ve never been in here before?” Sheppard asked, bemusement plain as he slowly got to his feet.  
  
“Yes, well, never was a reason, really. It’s Dex.” Rodney hadn’t even been sure the man had roosted _inside_ the house.  
  
Sheppard gave him a funny look, not unlike the I-smell-something-terrible expression from the day before, and Rodney snapped, “Why are you here again?”  
  
“Um. Actually I.” He scratched the back of his head. “I came to apologize.”  
  
“Apologize,” Rodney echoed woodenly.  
  
“Yeah. It was pointed out to me that I, ah, might’ve been a little rude before,” he said, and – wow – did that sound forced, like there was a sniper aiming a bullet at his head from...  
  
Rodney narrowed his eyes. “Teyla sent you, didn’t she?”  
  
Sheppard shifted his gaze off to the side, grimace tightening his mouth. “Maybe.”  
  
“Well, considering I _don’t_ appreciate the sentiment, Major—”  
  
“John.”  
  
“What?”   
  
“John. Or Sheppard, if you want.” The man shrugged. “I’m not military anymore.”  
  
“That’s peachy, _John_ ,” Rodney growled, then took a deep breath, shaking off his irritation as best he could. Sheppard had been extremely helpful with the beeping, after all. “Look, thanks for,” he wiggled his fingers, “finding the alarm.”  
  
Sheppard nudged the offending object with his foot. “Not a problem.”  
  
“Okay, good,” Rodney nodded. Then waited. Then cleared his throat. Finally, he bit out, “Was there something else?”  
  
“Uh, no?” he ventured, and he looked so absurdly cute with his tentative half-smile and fluffy hair and tight pants that Rodney just sighed and invited him upstairs for coffee.  
  
*  
  
Old man Caldwell lived just behind Rodney, at the top of a steep hill, and he had about five billion grandchildren. After the first big snow, Rodney learned that their favorite thing ever was sledding down Grandpa Caldwell’s slope and crashing – loudly - into his back fence.  
  
The only thing that stopped Rodney from going out and yelling his head off at them was that he was absolutely certain it was exactly what his uncle had done in years past, and Rodney never, ever wanted to be compared to his uncle.  
  
The little rugrats bugged the crap out of him, though.  
  
John waved at him from his yard, parka and sweatpants on, a knit cap pulled down over his ears, nearly eclipsing his eyes. Rodney lifted his coffee mug in salute as he looked out his back window.  
  
Cupping a hand over his mouth, John yelled, “Come on out, McKay!” and Rodney just smiled and nodded and ignored him because there was no way he was going to get on that thin piece of plastic John called a sled, and did he _see_ how steep Caldwell’s hill was?   
  
“Chicken!” John shouted, and Rodney grinned wider, this time raising a hand in acknowledgement. Being a chicken was perfectly respectable given the circumstances. A world robbed too early of Dr. Rodney McKay was unacceptable and wrong.   
  
And then John did that thing with his lips, which was not quite a pout but had just about the same results, his disappointment almost tangible, and if his hair hadn’t been covered it surely would’ve been drooping in a sad, tragic way, and Rodney was apparently the biggest pushover _ever_.  
  
*  
  
“Am I dead?”  
  
A chuff of air heated his neck, spangling against his skin. “No,” came the muffled reply.  
  
“Oh, good. You can get off me then.” Rodney shoved at the man lying heavily across his chest. He didn’t budge.  
  
“ _I_ might be dead,” John said, finally shifting so he slid off Rodney, rolling over to sprawl out in the snow on his back. He was panting harshly, breath condensed to milky white, hovering above their faces. Their arms were touching, John’s loose fist curling into the hollow of Rodney’s armpit. It was all terribly romantic.  
  
Not that Rodney was thinking remotely about romance in John’s company.  
  
Half-grown kids were groaning around them, then cackling gleefully as they struggled upright in their puffy snowsuits, high-fiving each other with smug, shiny-eyed looks.  
  
“Man. That was—”  
  
“Suicidal?” Rodney provided for John. “Horrifying? The worst idea ever?” Yes, let’s pile more kids on the back of the Death Sled, because faster _is_ better.  
  
John’s head fell to the side, goofy grin spreading his mouth wide, eyes just as bright as the gaggle of ten-year-olds around them. “Awesome. Let’s go again.”  
  
*  
  
Rodney wasn’t quite sure how he lost so much time, but it was early afternoon, the sun just starting its downward path behind Caldwell’s house, when Teyla called them in for hot soup.  
  
He peeled off his layers in her laundry room, pointedly ignoring John as he peeled off _his_ layers, and then settled down at the kitchen table, spooning up a wonderful smelling, thick tomato soup with a contented sigh. Teyla smiled at him like an indulgent mother, and Rodney knew she could kick his ass if she wanted to - was trained to kick ass, actually, and trained _others_ to kick ass - so it made the open affection on her face somehow even sweeter.  
  
He didn’t have many people he could honestly call friends; not with his cheerful disposition. Knowing that Teyla could take him to task in myriad painful ways, but actually felt no compulsion to do so made him feel decidedly warm and fuzzy inside. Not that he would _ever_ admit that out loud.  
  
“Did you two have fun?” she asked, ladling out more soup into their bowls, then spreading butterfly-shaped butter crackers out on a plate between them.  
  
“Yes, ma’am.” John sent Rodney a sideways grin.  
  
Rodney harrumphed, but didn’t contradict him. In fact, he’d enjoyed himself much more than he’d thought he would, which may or may not have had anything to do with the numerous times John had landed on or near him when they’d crashed at the bottom of the hill. It didn’t necessarily _sound_ fun, but hot, warm, heavy reality, in this case, was much better than any imagining.  
  
He found himself sending John a tiny, pleased smile, which seemed to throw the other man off. He gave Rodney a slow blink in return, a flush of pink painting the tops of his cheeks that was probably entirely due to cold skin meeting warm air, and nothing to due with sentiment.  
  
Rodney fought off the compulsion to reach over and squeeze John’s hand.  
  
*  
  
Dex got back in the wee hours on New Years Eve, which was par for the course with the man, so Rodney was only mildly alarmed when he was shaken awake, his bedside clock flashing 3:15 am.   
  
That wasn’t to say he was particularly _happy_ about it.   
  
“There better be a pot of coffee on,” he growled, and Dex’s grin was lacking his customary baring of teeth, disturbingly wan in the dim-dark light.  
  
“Come on,” he said, strong arming Rodney out of bed, and suddenly Rodney was wide awake and near panic, grasping Dex’s arm right back as he struggled past his covers.  
  
“What’s wrong? What’s happened?” he demanded, close to shrill.  
  
“Get dressed,” Dex said gruffly, and Rodney chanted, “oh god, oh god,” under his breath as he hopped around trying to pull on his sweatpants, because, unfortunately, he was no stranger to after-midnight, oh-so-fucking-bad wake-up calls. He’d really thought he’d left all that behind, though, when he’d quit consulting for the military.  
  
Dex poked his head out in the hall, and Rodney noticed the imposing black glock gripped in his hand, a silencer extending the barrel.   
  
“Who the hell _are_ you?” Rodney snarled, but Dex cut a narrow glare over his shoulder and his mouth snapped shut.  
  
2006 wasn’t looking all that fantastic.  
  
*  
  
“I’m going to take a wild guess and say you weren’t visiting your mother these past few days.”  
  
“Shut up, McKay,” Dex growled.  
  
“Shutting up,” Rodney offered, and then plowed on unrepentantly, “Where are we going?”  
  
Dex stomped through the snow at the edge of Rodney’s driveway and stepped next door into John’s yard, avoiding the motion light and slinking along the shadows towards the back. “Sheppard’s.”  
  
He nodded, blindly following Dex because even with the big gun, and the brusqueness, and the glowers, Rodney still inexplicable trusted the man. “Sheppard’s, right,” he said agreeably. That made… absolutely no sense at all. “Why are we going to John’s?”  
  
Dex ignored him and Rodney huffed and rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest as they stood side-by-side at John’s back porch, his initial fear dissipated by the sheer ridiculousness of the situation.  
  
With little effort, Dex jimmied the lock open and slipped into John’s pitch-black kitchen, tucking the pistol into the waistband of his pants as he ushered Rodney inside, closing and relocking the door with a soft snick. And then the lights flicked on and John was framed in the doorway, bleary-eyed and rumpled and – good _god_ – completely bare-chested, skin rosy from sleep.  
  
Rodney swallowed hard and hmm’d and Dex slammed the lights off again with a hiss.  
  
John’s voice came out of the darkness, confusion evident. “Problem?”  
  
*  
  
Rodney, for once, had nothing to say. Or he had _too much_ to say, and the words were all crammed tight in his throat, useless and thick.   
  
They were still in John’s kitchen, blinds pulled down tight and lights dimmed to their lowest setting over the table. John scrubbed a hand over his hair, forehead crinkled, and said, “Let me get this straight. These people, this Genii Corporation, hired you,” he eyed Dex, “to kill Rodney.”  
  
Rodney made a choked, squawking sound.  
  
John patted his hand absently, and Rodney wanted to slap his touch away and he wanted to wrap his fingers around it and hold on until everything made sense again.  
  
“Yeah,” Dex said, settling down in the chair opposite John after having raided his fridge, two hardboiled eggs lodged between his fingers. He took a bite out of one and shrugged. “But I couldn’t do it.”  
  
“You couldn’t do it,” John echoed, tone amiable but threaded with something stronger. “Why, exactly?”  
  
He shrugged again. “Look at him. It’s McKay.” There was such obvious affection couched in his words that Rodney’s frozen Look of Horror almost loosened enough for him to smile. Except Dex was a _hired mercenary_ that’d been living with him for _months_ , and he was very, very close to hyperventilating. He could feel it.  
  
“Right,” John drawled, “and no one in their right mind would want to harm Rodney here, since he’s so mild-mannered and polite.”  
  
An indignant “Hey!” made it past Rodney’s throat, and then more tumbled out after, falling almost on top of each other as he leaned into the dull edge of the tabletop. “Sarcasm isn’t appreciated at this juncture, Sheppard, though there’s no possible way I could argue your point.” He turned and glared at Dex. “How could you _not_ want to kill me?”  
  
*  
  
“Okay,” John said, slumping further into his chair, eyes narrowed on Rodney. “How about we start with why Genii Corp would want you dead in the first place, huh?”  
  
“I, um,” Rodney’s face grew hot, “I might’ve promised them something, and then, ah, delivered something else instead.”  
  
John looked at him blankly. “What?”  
  
“You know that theoretical thermonuclear bomb,” he held up his fingers, “the size of my thumb?”  
  
“Oh god,” John groaned, head tipping back.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Why the hell would you promise them that?”  
  
Rodney grimaced. “I actually didn’t have much of a choice.” He rolled a wrist limply. “Kidnapping was involved, blackmail, threats of torture, you name it. Not the fondest remembered period in my life. Which,” he sighed heavily, “was essentially why I left the military research center, ending up teaching in Bumblefuck, New York. And then inevitably the university got sick of my ‘bad attitude,’ decided my genius wasn’t worth the ‘anguish inflicted on malleable young minds’ – direct moronic quote there - and kicked me out. I was living in my car when scary Uncle Leo died. Good times.” And then a horrible thought occurred to him and he turned to Dex, eyes wide. “You didn’t kill Uncle Leo, did you?”  
  
Dex swallowed a healthy gulp of milk, then gave Rodney a crooked, wolfish grin. “Nah. Never met the man.”  
  
“You mean you didn’t work for him?” Rodney demanded.  
  
“Work for Leo?” John asked, bewildered. “He was living with _you_.”  
  
“In my basement!”  
  
Dex chuckled and, oh goody, he was evidently a _mischievous_ merc. “Sheppard thinks you pay me for sex.”  
  
“WHAT?!” Rodney shot to his feet, arms flailing. “You think I do _what_?”  
  
John had the good sense to look chagrined. “Actually, I just thought he was… kept.”  
  
“Kept,” Rodney repeated, leaning forward onto the table, palms flat on the cool wooden surface. “As in I give him things. For sex.”  
  
John’s brows peaked over his nose, one half of his face screwed up almost painfully. “Kinda?”  
  
“I. You,” Rodney spluttered, jabbed a finger at John, then jabbed that same finger at Dex. “I have never had sex with this behemoth,” he growled. “I’ve never _thought_ about having sex with him.” Which was only a very tiny lie, because _of course_ he’d thought about having sex with the man. He was raw sexuality dressed up in hair and leather. But it’d been fleeting and not worth mentioning and Dex had considerably more deteriorated table manners than Rodney, apparently – he’d moved from eggs to milk to what looked like month-old pasta mixed with what he _hoped_ was ham, all using his _bare hands_ \- and sometimes Rodney even disgusted himself on that point.  
  
He wasn’t overly choosey, but he did have _some_ standards.  
  
Dex almost looked pouty.  
  
John practically beamed at him. “Okay,” he said brightly. “Can I see you in the hall for a minute, then?”  
  
“What? Why?” Rodney asked suspiciously.   
  
“I want to show you something.” John nodded encouragingly as he gained his feet, floppy hair bobbing over his eyes.  
  
“You want to show me something _now_?”  
  
“Go ahead,” Dex waved them out. “I’ve got reinforcements coming, and the attack from Genii isn’t scheduled for another twenty minutes.”  
  
Panic fluttered up into Rodney’s chest again, making his breath stutter. “Are you kidding me? An _attack_?”  
  
“Relax, McKay.” Dex bared his teeth. “It’s all under control.”  
  
*  
  
Rodney crossed his arms over his chest and scowled at John, foot tapping impatiently. “Well?”  
  
John flashed him a half-smile and leant back against the wall, canting his hips outward. His body was one long, lean line and Rodney’s mouth tightened even more.  
  
“Rodney,” he drawled slowly.  
  
Rodney huffed. “Yes, well, as titillating as this conversation is, there’s apparently an attack planned for my person in less than twenty minutes, so if we could maybe speed this up?”  
  
The lazy half-smile sharpened perceptively. Rodney took a wary step backwards.  
  
“Rodney.” John followed his retreat, a smooth glide forward that landed his palms on either side of Rodney’s waist, and he licked his lips and dipped his head, gazing up at him from under his lashes.  
  
“Are you trying to seduce me?” Rodney asked, skin itching, focusing on keeping his breath calm and his words sarcastic because - _oh my god_ \- John was slowly pressing his length against him, urging his arms down from his chest, warm weight against his stomach, the points of his hips, and the man had spent the past three months thinking he _paid_ Dex to sleep with him and could he really just forget all that?  
  
Slyly, John murmured, “Maybe.”  
  
“Well, it won’t work,” Rodney snapped, blatantly lying through his teeth because of course it would work. _Was_ working.   
  
John didn’t seem to catch that, though, as his lips pulled into a pout and he moved slightly away, an apology in his hazel eyes, but before Rodney could point out how monumentally stupid he was being, Dex poked his dreadlocked head into the hall and said, “They’re here.”  
  
‘They’ turned out to be Teyla, a snarky blonde named Cadman, Aiden stare-at-my-eye-and-I’ll-cut-you Ford, and a skittish Scotsman that looked like he’d rather be anywhere else but there.  
  
*  
  
After the Scot, Beckett, muttered, “I wasna trained for this,” in a pronounced burr for the hundredth time, John shouted, “Enough!” and tore the pistol from his unsteady hands.  
  
Pushing him back against his chair with the butt, he growled, “You don’t get to go,” and Beckett visibly slumped with relief.  
  
“These are your reinforcements?” Rodney demanded incredulously.  
  
“Actually, we were in the middle of a date when Dex called,” Cadman offered in clear defense of the Scot, looking up from the selection of armaments John had spread out on the table.  
  
“It’s four in the morning,” he said.  
  
She grinned. “Yeah?”  
  
“I don’t want details,” John said, then gave Rodney a stern look. “ _You_ don’t want details. Oh, and you’re staying here with Beckett.”  
  
John seemed like he was spoiling for a fight, but there was no way Rodney was going to complain about that. “Have fun,” he said, sounding more flippant than he felt. “Try not to get blood on the walls. And watch out for Mr. Jones, he’s an ankle-biter.”  
  
*  
  
It took just under an hour for the whole mess to be cleaned up, and John came back flushed and bright-eyed, like he’d been out sledding again instead of jacking up a few Genii miscreants.  
  
Rodney discreetly ignored the blood on Cadman’s hands, while Beckett inquired if anyone needed stitching up, and Dex grinned a feral grin, a lazy arm across Teyla’s shoulders.  
  
Teyla cracked her knuckles. “I disapprove of mindless violence,” she said, “but that was most satisfying.”  
  
“I suppose it’s safe for me to go home, then?” Rodney asked, jittery from nerves and coffee, body exhausted, wanting to get far away from Dex’s band of homicidal merry men as soon as possible.  
  
“A ‘thanks’ might be nice,” Cadman drawled, but her eyes were dancing and she was eyeing up Beckett like he was a hundred and eighty pounds of pure chocolate.  
  
“Thanks,” Rodney said blandly. “And you all frighten me.”  
  
Still grinning, Dex curled his free arm around him and pulled him close.   
  
Rodney struggled vainly as he found himself nose to armpit with him. “Let go of me, you man ape! Good god, you smell like a wet camel. Have you bathed? _Ever_?”  
  
Dex, predictably, just laughed.  
  
*  
  
Rodney’s doorbell rang just as he was shrugging on a coat, intent on shouting at Sheppard for giving up so quickly - re: his pathetic attempt at seduction - and he yanked open the door to find John on his stoop, sheepish expression in place.  
  
“Listen, Rodney—”  
  
“Oh, no. No, no. You are _not_ going to apologize, and we’re not going to pretend you didn’t try to seduce me, because you _did_ , and I’m so incredibly easy it’s ridiculous.” He curled his fists over the folds of John’s open jacket and hauled him inside, the man’s obvious surprise at the greeting making him nicely maneuverable.  
  
Dex was lazing in the parlor again, and Rodney had no idea why the man was still hanging around, but he wasn’t about to throw him out of the house. The room, however… He kicked at Dex’s side, and the tall man grunted and rolled up, giving Rodney an amused look before gaining his feet.   
  
“Out, out,” Rodney snapped, jerking his head towards the door, simultaneously pushing John onto the couch and crawling on top of him, sliding his fingers up under the hem of his shirt.  
  
“Um.” John looked honestly bewildered.  
  
Rodney grabbed both of John’s hands, placing them over his chest. “Participation would be good,” he said, nodding earnestly, then started in on John’s shirt again, rucking it up past his nipples, coarse, springy hair tickling the pads of his fingers as he traced his sternum.  
  
After an infinitesimal pause, John dropped his arms and squirmed out of his coat, then latched onto Rodney again, this time palming his shoulders and reeling him down far enough to mouth the stubble where it met his throat, suck on the under curve of his jaw. He hooked a leg around Rodney’s thigh and panted, “Is this because I saved your life?” just as Rodney flattened his hand and smoothed it under the waistband of his sweatpants.  
  
Rodney pulled away and scowled down at him, palm still flexing on John’s abdomen. “You didn’t save my life. Dex saved my life. And what sort of question is that, anyway?”  
  
John arched his back, thrusting his hips up with a groan, neck curved, flushed and wet-lipped with dark lashes brushing his cheeks as his eyes fell closed, and Rodney lost his entire train of thought.  
  
*  
  
Naked and sweaty were Rodney’s least favorite adjectives - when they pertained to himself, at least – but he was content enough to slump down onto the parlor floor, John sprawled half on top of him, pants tangled around his ankles. He would have felt slightly more foolish if John didn’t have his t-shirt ringed around his neck, one arm still in a sleeve.  
  
“Rodney—”  
  
“I can and will use everything you say against you,” Rodney advised the top of his dark head. “So think very carefully before you speak.” He was graciously letting John’s earlier remark go, since he felt the enthusiastic blowjob more than made up for it.  
  
“All right,” John said, then went on slowly, “I’m cold.” A shiver emphasized his words.  
  
Rodney glanced towards the doorway, cool air seeping in from the foyer, the fire on their right burned down to crumbling embers. “Next time we should shut the door,” he commented absently.  
  
He felt John grin against his collarbone.


End file.
